


have yourself a merry little christmas

by ironarana



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Fix it of sorts, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie), Tony Stark Has A Heart, fluff if you squint, ironfam, this took me so long guys
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:55:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,137
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ironarana/pseuds/ironarana
Summary: Peter wishes he could say he’s joking about this but the truth is he’s chasing Santa Claus downtown and dodging exploding ornaments that are getting tossed out of the mechanized sleigh Santa is riding.So Merry Christmas to him, he guesses.
Relationships: Irondad & Spiderson - Relationship, Peter Parker & Michelle Jones & Ned Leeds, Peter Parker & Tony Stark, Tony Stark & Pepper Potts
Comments: 16
Kudos: 119





	have yourself a merry little christmas

**Author's Note:**

> there are like two other versions of this that i've been trying to write since halloween (when it snowed where i live) and i've finally settled on this version. hope you guys enjoy, i worked really hard on this and put a lot of time into it. 
> 
> enjoy!

Peter wishes he could say he’s joking about this but the truth is he’s chasing Santa Claus downtown and dodging exploding ornaments that are getting tossed out of the mechanized sleigh Santa is riding. 

So Merry Christmas to him, he guesses. 

“Ho, ho, ho! Merry X-Mas!” is what Santa bellows from his sleigh as Peter slings after him, trying to catch ornaments and redirect them into the air so they don’t explode in the streets down below. Peter throws them onto rooftops or overhead. They shatter and burst in mid air and the mini-shockwaves ripple through the suit, sending the hairs on Peter’s forearms standing on end beneath the fabric. Colored shrapnel rains down like confetti from above. 

Peter sighs and calls out, “Dude, lemme just say, this is not my idea of a holly jolly Christmas!” 

Santa doesn’t hear him. It doesn’t really matter anyways. The sleigh suddenly banks right and Peter shoots a web and takes the corner a hard and wide, nearly clipping his leg on a building across the street. He rights himself and keeps swinging, muscles aching and joints burning. He feels breathless. He’s been web slinging for too long and he’s been awake for much longer. Sleep doesn’t come easy. Nothing does anymore. 

He’s so tired. 

Peter is gaining speed now, the distance between him and Saint Nick slowly closing and he’s beginning to think he’s got this, he’s finally got this in the bag when he notices Santa turn around with something curled in his fist. 

The eye lenses of the suit adjust but by then it’s too late. Electricity crackles as Santa whips a string of Christmas lights at Peter in a motion too quick to comprehend. 

It catches Peter by surprise, the way most things do these days, and it burns his right forearm hot and fast, the pain stinging and sharp. His vision whites out. His eyes water. 

It’s the only explanation as to how he misses his next shot. He blindly shoots a web, misses and is sent tumbling down into the street below. Colored warnings flash across his HUD. Neurons flare and scream in the back of his mind. 

“Peter,” Karen is beginning to say, “Brace for-” 

It feels like an explosion, like a chain reaction of cluster bombs exploding along his vertebrae. Heat rushes through his body like a wildfire. He writhes against it, rolling over the sidewalk. Pain crashes through him in waves with every single movement. His ears ring sharply. His head pounds. 

Bystanders begin to swarm around him in heavy winter coats with bags hanging in the crook of their arms and for every person that circles him, Peter sees two of them. Everything is too bright. Nausea washes over him in dizzying, rolling waves. 

Peter somehow stumbles to his feet. People around him sway back and forth as the world warbles and tilts. He grips the edge of a building for support, fingers digging into the brick, and looks up long enough to see the sleigh being steered around a corner. 

Santa gets away. 

Peter goes home. 

-

“‘Masked menace terrorizes beloved childhood icon,’” reads Ned the next day at school. 

Peter shuts his locker door a little too hard, agitation flaring hotly in his chest. “It’s not funny, Ned.” 

“I mean, it kinda is,” Ned says and then shuts his phone off, shoves it in his pocket. He falls into step besides Peter as they make their way towards their next class. “Besides,” he adds, “it’s not like anyone really reads The Bugle anyways.” 

Just then, because Peter is just that lucky nowadays, Flash traipses by them with his phone in his hands and juts his chin out at Peter. 

“Hey, Parker!” he says loudly over the clamor. “Maybe get your buddy Spider-Man to lay off ol’ Kris Kringle this year, okay? I’m hoping to get the new StarkPhone model this year for Christmas.” 

Peter clenches his jaw to avoid spitting something he shouldn’t, annoyance turning him raw and near angry at the edges. 

He watches Flash disappear into the crowd and then Ned turns back to Peter, scoffs and says, “Yeah, like someone like Flash would be on Santa’s Nice list this year.” 

Peter forces a trapped breath from his lungs, chest loosening with relief. He laughs, all breath and unease. “Yeah, I know right?” 

At lunch, they discuss Christmas plans with MJ, who sits at the end of the table with her nose buried in a book about Rosa Parks.

“I’m gonna be celebrating Christmas at this cabin my uncle has upstate,” Ned says. “We go there every year and we sled or he takes us out on these four wheelers, it’s a lot of fun.” 

Peter brow crinkles in mild surprise. “I didn’t know you rode four wheelers, Ned.” 

He shakes his head, smile slipping onto his face. “Nah, I don’t. Just think it makes me sound cool is all.” 

Peter huffs a laugh through his nose and then his gaze slides to MJ, who, as usual, isn’t paying them anymore attention than she normally does. Her eyes scan over the page and when they reach the bottom, she flips it with a finger and keeps reading. 

It must show on his face, the affection, because Ned elbows him in the ribs and shoots him an impatient glare before Peter has a chance to be offended. 

He shifts nervously on the bench and clears his throat. “So, MJ, what are your plans for Christmas?” 

“Mourning the loss of my freedom and listening to my sister’s kids scream their heads off about how Santa is gonna visit them in the middle of the night,” she says, voice flat and unenthusiastic. 

“Oh,” Peter breathes and he looks at Ned, desperate, only for Ned to reflects his cluelessness. “I’m sorry?” he finally says. 

“Yeah, nothing like the demon spawn of Satan running around the house to get a girl going before she has to listen to her racist relatives argue over the dinner table,” MJ replies and then her eyes reach the bottom of the page and she turns it. 

Peter and Ned exchange worried glances because from the way she says it, it sounds like the literal end of the world as they know it. 

She must notice this because then she throws out an, “I’m messing with you” and snorts. “You guys are too easy. Her kids are heathens though, I wasn’t lying about that or my racist relatives either.” 

“Sorry,” Peter replies. 

She shrugs. “It’s alright. Just don’t have too much fun over Christmas and make me feel bad, okay?” 

Peter smiles. “I’ll try my best.” 

-

Here is how it goes lately, unfortunately: Peter and May miss each other like two ships passing in the night. Peter, with finals week approaching and May, with a multitude of hospitals shifts and charity fundraisers. It’s rare to see each other and rarer now to wait up for each other. 

So after Peter eats dinner alone and studies for finals, he double checks all the locks and goes right to bed. 

He wakes screaming hours later. 

This, too, is how it goes lately. He’s on an orange crusted planet or a brown muddied battlefield and it’s a coin toss how the nightmare ends but Peter can usually guess. It’s him, with his atoms unraveling into the atmosphere or it’s Tony, eyes dead and staring. 

Either way, he wakes thrashing against the blankets in a cold sweat, chest heaving as he surfaces for air. His heart pounds in his ears and he’s high on an adrenaline rush, manic and Desperate. His fingers grip the bed sheets, loosen and curl into fists, nails biting into his palms hard enough to hurt.

He shoves his hands into his eyes. His retinas burn with the image of Tony’s body. Scarred and rippled with burns, the acrid smell of burnt flesh filling Peter’s nostrils. 

Sometimes he swears he can still smell it. 

He curls himself into the corner and he waits and waits for May to come barreling down the hall and murmur reassurances into his ear and tell him it’s okay, he’s still here, it was just a dream, it’s okay. He would’ve hated those reassurances, hated how hollow they felt, but he would’ve melted into her embrace nonetheless. Grateful. Grounded. Real. 

May never comes and Peter doesn’t fall asleep again that night. 

-

Finals week comes and goes in a stress induced, tired haze. Peter barely remembers anything from that week. Just his unwavering confidence in the physics and calculus exams, undercut by his shaking hands and drooping eyelids. 

Either way, it’s all over and behind him now and there’s nothing else to look forward to other than Christmas, which he’s not even that excited about. There’s no decorations, no Christmas tree. No May. Peter isn’t even sure he wants to celebrate this year. 

She finally comes home on Thursday, the last day of school. Peter has been home for three hours binge watching the first season of _The Office_ for lack of anything better to do. 

And at first, he doesn’t hear her come in. He’s in his room wrapped in a bundle of blankets as he scrolls through various Instagram posts and glances at the episode he’s watching every so often. 

So when he hears May call him out to the kitchen he nearly jumps out of his skin. 

He shuts the laptop and slides out of bed, pads out to the kitchen. May is still in her nurses scrubs and tennis shoes, hair in a messy bun, heavy winter coat over her clothes. Her hands are placed disapprovingly on her hips, eyes tired with exasperation. 

“Peter,” she says, “how many have I told you to make sure the dishes don’t pile up in the sink? We’re gonna attract flies.” 

Peter shifts. His heart throbs like a bruise. This is the first time he’s seen her in days. 

“Yeah, I know,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.” 

Her lips press into a thin line as she gathers her purse off the counter. Peter migrates further into the kitchen and she breezes right past him. 

But because this is how it goes lately, May missing him like a ship in the dark, lonely night and Peter being tossed about in the cold, tumultuous sea, Peter feels it all come rushing to meet him like a river out to the ocean and so, like a rubber band stretched too far for too long, he finally, finally, snaps. 

“It’s not like you’d even notice if I washed them anyways.” 

He hears May’s footsteps freeze. The air goes cold around them. He hears her turn on a heel and hiss, “What did you just say to me?” 

“It’s not like you’re even around that much anymore, May!” Peter snaps and turns around to face her. “I haven’t even seen you in days and the very first thing you say to me when I come home is that I haven’t done the dishes.” 

“Well, excuse me if I’m busy trying to make sure the rent is paid and make sure that other people are doing well and being cared for,” May spits, her face flushed with wrath as she steps to him. 

“May, I’ve tried to help you with the rent but you won’t let me!” 

“Yes, because it’s not your job, Peter!” she yells. 

“Well, it’s my job to take care of you, like it’s your job to take care of me!” he shouts. His chest heaves for air. His heart pounds in his ears. “Like we promised each other! That night, remember?” 

“Oh, of course I remember, Peter,” she cuts back, obvious. “We promised each other the night that-” 

It all comes to a grinding halt so sudden that it gives Peter whiplash. He feels like he’s been thrown back into that night and it rattles around him like the lights hanging from the bodega ceiling, Ben’s blood wet and slick on his hands. 

May met him at the scene and wrapped her arms around him when his sweatshirt was still warm and stained with blood, but they didn’t cry together until later that night after Peter had fallen asleep and woken up screaming. 

They were going to take care of each other. They promised. 

May blinks like she’s been hit with it too and he looks into her eyes, wide and pained and sad, and he knows that she’s remembering the same thing. Guilt gnashes at the lining of his stomach and he knows he crossed a line, throwing that night in her face like he did. 

May seems to go rigid all over, holding herself very tightly like she’s trying very hard not to cry. She sniffles anyways and turns around, passes by the fridge before she stops and backtracks. 

Peter’s brow knits together in confusion as he watches May check the calendar then press a nail over the days date. She laughs wetly and covers her mouth with a hand, shakes her head in disbelief. 

“Twenty one days,” she whispers. 

Peter looks down at the lines between the kitchen tiles, toes them with a socked foot. He knows what that means. May says it for him. 

“It’s our best Christmas in years.” 

And May is right: Ben died on the sixteenth, and they’ve argued every year since. Sometimes before, sometimes after. He would be surprised they’ve made it this long if he wasn’t so busy feeling guilty. 

But it doesn’t matter. 

In the end, May goes to her room and Peter washes the dishes alone. 

-

In the morning, he wakes slowly to the sound of someone knocking on the front door. 

On instinct, he groans and yanks the covers over his hears to drown out the sound. It’s way too early to be answering whoever is knocking at the door. 

He tries to ignore them but whoever it is is insistent. They knock in intervals, rapid and loud, and eventually, Peter just gives up and throws back the blankets, marches angrily over to the front door. He’s never been one to give people an earful but maybe this time he’ll make an exception. 

He undoes the deadbolt, metal grating on metal, knocking grating on his nerves, and then undoes the bottom lock and opens the door to see-

Tony. 

It’s Tony, in the flesh, hands shoved in the pockets of his long black coat and electric blue tinted glasses over his eyes. 

“Ho, ho, ho,” he greets, drily. 

Peter eyes blow wide with panic. It explodes and fills his insides with a blinding white light and he acts quick, like it’s a matter of survival. 

“Mr. Stark!” he hisses and grabs Tony’s sleeve to tug him inside, not even realizing until a moment later that his fingers brushed against cool metal where Tony’s wrist should be. His fingers itch. Peter double checks the hallway to make sure no one saw and then shuts the door, does up all the locks. 

When he turns around, Tony is humming to himself and nonchalantly surveying the apartment with an innocent look on his face like he didn’t just come knocking on Peter’s door at whatever-time-it-is in the morning. 

“Mr. Stark, what are you doing here?” Peter questions, a little brashly, but he’s too worried now to be so mad about being woken up so early. 

“I think the better question is what are you doing still in your pajamas at ten am in the morning,” Tony says and then keeps plowing through as Peter looks down at his red checked pajama pants. “Or better yet, did the Grinch go through your place while you were asleep last night?” 

Peter blinks in confusion. He feels dazed, lightheaded. Tony is talking in a rush and Peter is being blown about in the wind without any webs to tether him. 

“Mr. Stark,” he tries, “what are you-” 

“Where all the decorations?” Tony says. He gestures broadly to the barren walls, the faded yellow paint. “No snow globes, no candles, not even a wreath. What, did you turn into Ebeneezer Scrooge this year?” 

Truthfully, he kinda did, and the admission is there, hanging on the tip of his tongue but he bites down on it, tugs at his shirt sleeves to hide how his hands are now shaking inexplicably. 

If Tony notices, thankfully he doesn’t say so. But what he does say is: “Alright, fine. Put some clothes on, we’re going for a ride.” 

Tony moves towards the door with a casual air of indifference, like he can just barge in here and order Peter around and whisk him off to wherever he likes. 

It’s not gonna fly, at least not today, and Peter darts over to the door, a litany of, “Wait, wait, wait, Mr. Stark, wait” falling from his lips. 

“Where are we going? What if someone sees you?” he asks, hasty. Worried. 

“I’m afraid that’s classified information,” Tony says, cool as always. “And listen, no one’s gonna see me. I’m dead, remember?” 

It stings a little harder than Tony probably intended it to. It hurts tender, like a bruise, and the memory echoes and spreads dimly through the hollows of Peter’s insides before dissipating into nothingness. 

A hand settles on Peter’s shoulder and squeezes lightly. “Ten minutes,” Tony says, gentle. “Meet me downstairs.” 

And then he lets himself out. 

-

It’s a surprisingly unostentatious SUV with tinted windows and leather seats. And Peter wouldn’t doubt it if it’s secretly armored or reinforced in some way. 

He should feel safe here. With Tony in the driver’s seat as they cruise through the city. 

But every time he looks at Tony, at the stubble crawling along his jawline, all Peter can see is skin rippled with burns and scars and hollow, dead eyes, staring, staring, staring. It’s been branded into his brain forever and Peter wonders if there will ever come a day when he can look at Tony without remembering a dead man. 

“Got something on my face?” 

Peter jerks back into himself. Tony glances sideways at him and Peter tears his gaze away, sinks down into his seat, face flushed with embarrassment and shame. 

“Sorry,” Peter mumbles. 

“It’s alright,” Tony says. “We’re almost there.” 

Tony turns his blinker on and they roll along the curb before coming to a stop. Peter looks out the window as he undoes his seatbelt. It’s a silver diner that looks like an airstream trailer with a colored sign over it reading “Julie’s Diner” in faded, peeling letters. 

Inside, it’s all retro themed with black and white checkered linoleum, vinyl seats and even a jukebox in the corner playing Christmas songs at a low volume. The air sizzles. Peter hears grease popping and pots clattering. 

The hostess greets them with a smile and grabs two menus, leads them to a booth and sets the menus down with a slap, letting them know their waiter will be out shortly. 

“Fantastic,” Tony says and squints at the nametag, “Thank you, Martha.” 

“No problem,” Martha replies and then breezes away leaving Peter one side of the table, Tony on the other. 

It’s a little strange to watch Tony flip open a menu and scan over his options like nothing has changed, like it never even happened in the first place when it’s all Peter can think about, the memories bleeding into his days and nights. 

It’s even more strange too to see Tony now when Peter hasn’t seen him in three months since that day at the hospital when Peter cried in relief after finding out Tony was alive and then, cried himself to sleep at his bedside only to wake to the familiar and soothing motion of a warm, calloused hand carding softly through his hair. 

It’s just strange and the strangeness of it all twists Peter’s stomach when he thinks too hard about it. 

“Hmm. I think a breakfast skillet sounds good,” Tony says, sudden, and it brings Peter back from the brink again, like always. That, at least, hasn’t changed. Tony clears his throat and slides his menu away. “So, what say you?” 

Peter hasn’t even looked at a menu. “Um, pancakes?” 

“Great choice, classic.” 

Peter huffs a small laugh. His hands fidget nervously underneath the table, leg bouncing with manic energy. 

“So, um,” Peter starts, “did you-did you really come all the way out here just to take me to breakfast, Mr. Stark?” 

Tony scoffs, shakes his head. “God, no, Pete. Time is money and I intend to spend every bit of it very wisely. See, I had a hypothesis about how your Christmas celebrations were going and as it turns out, I was right, like always. So, _we_ are going to turn your aunt’s apartment into the inside of a Macy’s store on steroids and _you_ are gonna help me.” 

Peter blinks, dazed, and shakes his head slowly in confusion, uncomprehending. “Mr. Stark, what are you…?” 

Just then, their waitress approaches and asks, spritely, what they would each like to drink. Tony orders coffee and Peter settles for water because his stomach is churning with nervous anticipation and he doesn’t think he could keep something as sweet as hot chocolate down right now. 

The waitress jots down their drink orders and in her wake, Tony’s suspicious gaze slides to Peter and he gruffly teases, “Since when did you become boring?” 

A younger, more naive innocent Peter would’ve laughed and rolled his eyes, would’ve formed his lips around a witty remark and Tony would’ve been affronted, mocking shock and hurt and wrenching a laugh straight from Peter’s chest. 

But the old Peter isn’t here and Peter thinks about him sometimes, fleetingly, like he’s a whole different entity entirely. Someone that is not really him and yet once was, at some point. Sometimes he feels like the old Peter is just beyond reach, yellowed and worn around the edges. 

But if he’s even still out there, if even he still exists, then he’s not here now and Peter just stifles a sigh and looks underneath the table where he absentmindedly cleans out dirt from underneath chewed nail beds. 

Tony stifles a sigh. Peter hears a clattering and looks to see Tony has taken his glasses off to reveal his whole face and a candid, genuine worry bared in his glassy, brown eyes. 

“Look, kid,” Tony begins, low and gentle, “I know this year has been hard for you. You’ve been through a lot and I understand if it’s hard to celebrate things like this. Christmas and everything else.” 

It’s beyond hard. It’s unbearable, it’s impossible, and Peter’s eyes sting with unbidden water, his nose itching. 

“But I don’t want you to just stop living because of it,” he continues, “I want you to live in spite of it. Otherwise, those terrible, bad things that happened, they’ll swallow you up whole, kid. I don’t want to see that happen to you.” 

And the truth he doesn’t want to admit is: they are swallowing him up whole with gaping, hungry jaws and Peter is struggling to swim against the current pushing him down into the dark, cavernous stomach of all the bad things that have happened over the years. 

Silence lingers, filled with the raucous clamoring of chefs cooking and hollering in the kitchen, the air sizzling with grease popping. 

Tony clears his throat, the way he always does to conclude their heartfelt conversations. It’s his way of transitioning, of wanting to move onto something else. 

“So, how about we have breakfast and we go to a Christmas tree farm and we decorate your apartment like we’re Buddy the Elf’s distant cousins, twice removed, okay?” 

And it’s this witty one liner that finally takes a laugh straight out of Peter’s chest. 

-

“So what have you been doing, Mr. Stark? Since I last saw you?” 

“God, that was a long time ago, wasn’t it?” Tony says and shakes his head, checks the rearview mirror, changes lanes. “Pepper’s been keeping me on house arrest, wants me to recuperate and take it easy but still, three months is pretty extensive.” 

“I haven’t seen you in a long time,” Peter says. 

“I know, and I’m gonna start making it up to you. Ms. Potts has finally started going back to work again, thank God. I know we’re married but I gotta admit, I think she drives me crazy more than I drive her crazy sometimes.” 

Peter huffs a laugh through his nose and dips his head down, slides his gaze out the car window where tall pine trees dusted with snow rush past them in a blur as they speed down the highway. Somewhere out there, just beyond the treeline lies the ruins of the compound where it once stood gleaming and majestic against a crystal sky. Now, the sky is a perpetual, never ending dreary grey and Peter feels like the outside matches his insides now, somehow. Barren, faded. The old Peter is a colored and vibrant splash in his memory. 

“What’s going on in that head of yours, kid?” 

Peter’s distant stare snaps to Tony, who glances sideways at him. 

“Um,” Peter says. Then, “I-I just really missed you is all.” 

It’s not a blatant lie. It wasn’t what he was thinking about but it is true. Peter hasn’t seen Tony in months and he still doesn’t quite understand Tony’s decision to distance, a decision that may not have been mostly his to begin with anyways. 

Tony’s face softens, mouth slanting into a smile. 

“I missed you too, Pete. Really did.” 

-

“Joe’s Christmas Tree Farm,” reads the wooden entry sign in merry curling letters. 

Peter jogs lightly after Tony, who walks with great strides like a man on a mission which, Peter supposes he is. The whole shenanigan was his idea after all. 

They approach a booth occupied by a bored teenager leaning with an elbow on the desk behind the hard plastic. Their chin is cupped in a hand, a jingle bell hanging off the elf’s hat they wear. Peter tries to restrain an ungainly snort of amusement. 

Tony clears his throat. “We would like one, tall Christmas tree, please,” he declares, breath puffing and evaporating into the cold, wintery air. 

The teenager groans. “Sir, if you want a tree,” he grumbles halfheartedly, “you either browse our selection of pre-cut or you have to cut it down yourself.” 

Tony looks at Peter. 

Peter’s eyes widen and his shoulders bunch together. “Don’t look at me! This was your plan!” 

Tony huffs, amused. “We’ll take a saw then, please.” 

Ten minutes later, they’re trekking out to the field of Christmas trees awaiting them. Peter figures the selection won’t be any good but Tony is optimistic and brandishing the saw like a knight would his sword. 

“So, what’s your plan?” Tony asks as they hike, the heels of Peter’s boots sinking into the damp soil beneath them. “Charlie Brown tree or Rockefeller tree?” 

“Um, neither?” 

“Fair enough. Let’s check over here.” 

They wander down an aisle of trees. Tony inspects them up and down and Peter swears he can see the gears whirring in Tony’s brain as he calculates the height and width, probably figuring out if they can carry it up the apartment building’s staircase and fit it through the doorway of the apartment. 

Peter absentmindedly trails after him with his arms crossed over his chest against the cold, his eyes running half heartedly over the trees lightly powdered with snow. Truthfully, he doesn’t really mind what tree they settle on. He’s never really cared before and he’s not about to start now so, as long as Tony likes it and May likes it, then that’s good enough for him. 

Tony abruptly stops in the aisle and Peter nearly bumps into him, his feet grinding to a halt. 

Tony examines the tree critically, brow pinched together in concentration. To Peter, it doesn’t seem that different compared to all the other trees they’ve passed up so far. It’s plump at the bottom and narrow to a point at the top. Just like all the other trees he’s had in the past. 

“Hmm,” Tony says and looks at Peter for his opinion. “What do you think, kid?” 

“It’s a tree?” 

“Astute observation but what I was wondering was do you like it?” 

Peter shrugs indifferently. “Yeah, it’s-it’s fine.” 

Either Tony doesn’t notice the apathy or doesn’t care because then he says, “Perfect, because you-” he extends the saw “-are gonna do the cutting so get to it,” he finishes, gesturing with the saw to the wet earth squelching beneath their shoes. 

“W-What?” Peter gasps in disbelief, shock. Or maybe it’s the cold. His teeth chatter with shivers, his breath evaporates. “Wha-Mr. Stark, we came all the way out here because this was your plan!” 

“Well, I have a heart condition and you have a case of the holiday blues so let’s consider this mutually beneficial to both of us, okay?” 

Peter narrows his eyes in mild annoyance but takes the saw anyways. “I hate you.” 

“Uh huh, sure.” 

Peter lays himself down on the chill, mushy ground and mimics the pose burned into his memory from Christmases long, long ago, when Ben and May would take him to a Christmas tree farm and Ben would cut down their tree after it was granted May’s final seal of approval. Peter would help him carry it back by the trunk and Ben would tease, “You’re getting stronger, Pete! Soon you’ll be able to lift a hundred tons!” 

The words taste bitter now like copper and blood and Peter’s heart stutters before he clenches his jaw and begins to saw away at the trunk, circling around it and running the jagged edge back and forth, metal grating against wood. 

After a few minutes of this, of his muscles burning and his grunts of effort slipping between his teeth, he gripes, “Are you just gonna stand there all day and look pretty?” 

“Compliment accepted,” Tony replies. “And no. I’m gonna strap this baby to the roof and do all the driving since you’re terrible at it.” 

Peter rolls his eyes inwardly. “It was one accident.” 

“And I’m not itching to get into another, thank you very much.” 

Peter groans exasperatedly and then stands to his feet, chest heaving with pants of exertion, forehead beading with a light sweat. He’s sawed enough that he should be able to just tip it over and the tree will snap to meet the earth below them. 

Tony gestures to it, raises a brow. “Care to do the honors?” 

Peter very much does care about this, at least, because if he’s gonna do all the work of cutting the thing down, then he’s not going to pass on the chance to watch it whoosh through the air and land at his feet. 

So his lips tilt into a mischievous smile, similar to the one Tony wears. He rounds to one side of the tree and presses his gloved hands against it, pushes it over. It splinters and creaks in protest before it finally snaps with a magnificent crackling sound that fills Peter’s ears. His chest blooms with a long dormant, childish giddiness he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

It’s the stupid things, he finds, and the little things that get him going. 

“That was sick!” he exclaims, a grin plastered on his face, eyes sparkling. 

Tony shakes his head in amusement. “Yeah, kid, sure was.” 

-

“On another note, what did happen to all your Christmas decorations?” 

They’re hauling the tree back to the farm. Well, Peter is anyways, with Tony insistent on his heart condition and also insistent that Peter should be able to do the heavy lifting no sweat, considering he can lift up to three tons according to Tony’s data files. 

“Ten tons, Mr. Stark,” Peter corrected. 

Tony raised his hands in surrender. “Alright, Juggernaut.” 

Now, his unanswered question lingers in the chill air and Peter thinks hard about it as they hike over the flat, downtrodden pathway that leads back to the farm. Tony has his eyes fixated on the treeline in the distance, dark shadows contrasting a grey sky. It’ll be dark soon, night crawling over the sky and shrouding their way back home. 

Finally, Peter just shrugs. “Don’t know. They got lost in the Blip, I guess. Along with a bunch of other stuff.” 

“Mm,” Tony says. “What kind of stuff?” 

Peter steps over a raised mound of dirt. “Stupid stuff. Like pots and pans and towels and...and then other stuff like some scrapbooks and pictures and...and Ben’s box.” 

Tony’s brow creases together in Peter’s periphery, head turning to look at him. “What was in Ben’s box?” he asks. 

And the truth is this: only three people know about Ben’s box. May and Peter, obviously, and Ned, who Peter told about box long ago that first Christmas they celebrated the year after Ben died. And to this day, Ned never mentions it and never brings it up because the subject is still too raw and sensitive around the edges for Peter to talk about yet. 

And since they’ve already going all out here with the heart-to-heart over breakfast and hushed conversations in the car, Peter figures he might as well talk about this too, this box that swallows him whole when it’s opened and might never be opened again. 

Peter sighs, breath curling into the air. His eyes sting with water. His throat is thick. “Just stuff,” he pushes out. His heart thrums with anxiety in his chest. He sniffles. “May didn’t want to get rid of everything when it happened so we kept some things and put it in a box on the top shelf of the linen closet.

“Stuff like Ben’s favorite cologne, pictures, letters he wrote May when they started dating, letters he wrote me for in case he...you know.” 

“I do know,” Tony says. 

A silent tear slips unbidden down Peter’s red, frostbitten cheeks. “And his-his badge went missing too,” he adds and this, he thinks, is what tears at him the most: Ben’s badge forever missing an irretrievable, a victim of the snap just as much as Peter himself was. 

“I thought they didn’t release those to the public,” Tony says, curious, questioning. 

Peter shakes his head. “They don’t. His old partner, Murph, he, uh, he got the police commissioner to release the badge for us. For-for May and I.” 

Tony nods thoughtfully. Peter remembers that day like it was yesterday, the yellow afternoon light shining through the faded glass windows of the 2-9 precinct, illuminating the dust motes wafting through the stale air. Murph led him over to the bullpen where a cardboard box of Ben’s belongings sat patiently on the desk of the head detective that had been assigned to Ben’s case. A case now closed, thanks to Spider-Man. 

Murph took his hands and pressed something firmly into Peter’s palm, curled his stiff and hesitant fingers around it. When Murph retracted his hands, Ben’s silver shield glinted in the light. Peter remembers swallowing down hysteria and grief like it was bile but Murph’s steely gaze insisted. 

_“You take good care of this for me, alright?”_ he said, deep voice echoing forward through time from all those years ago. 

Peter sniffled and said _“Copy that”_ : their own inside joke. 

Then Murph hugged him and took him home, Ben’s box of items from his locker cradled in Peter’s lap in the back of a squad car. 

“You know, I tried to save your stuff, kid,” Tony says and Peter snaps back into himself so hard he blinks dazedly at Tony, slightly lightheaded. Tony’s shoes crunch over snow and Peter realizes they’re nearing the farm. 

“But when I got back I was a mess,” he continues, “It took me a long time to pull myself out of-” he shakes his head and exhales slowly, breath unsteady and scraping against the wind “-everything that I was feeling.” He casts his eyes to the ground and even through the electric blue tint of his glasses, there’s no mistaking the guilt pooling in his eyes. “And by then it was too late. Your stuff was gone and I...I couldn’t save it.” 

_Just like I couldn’t save you_ goes unsaid but it rings loudly in Peter’s ears like church bells anyways. 

“It’s okay, Mr. Stark,” Peter assures. “I won’t hold it against you.” 

And Tony looks at Peter like he’s eager to believe him. 

-

In the car, with the tree strapped to their roof: 

“Die Hard is not a Christmas movie, Peter.” 

“Yes, it is!” 

Tony’s eyes are firm, unrelenting. “No, it’s not.” 

-

When they arrive at the apartment, Peter is the one who carries the tree all the way up the stairs while Tony leads the charge, the key Peter gave him clenched one palm, the plastic bag containing their tree stand in another. 

Tony slides it into the lock and twists the handle. The door swings open with a creak of the hinges and then Peter drags the tree inside, props it in a corner while Tony fishes out the tree stand. 

“Peter!” calls May, from down the hall, and Peter turns just in time to see her eyes widen as she trails off, “I was thinking maybe we could…” 

She slows to a stop at the mouth of the hallway, a watery gasp of astonishment escaping her despite the thin hand she covers her lips with. Her gaze is all shimmery with tears now as she tearfully asks, “Peter, what’s all this?” 

Sheepish, Peter looks at Tony, who nods at him to explain. His fingers twist nervously, hands clammy, heart thudding like a freight train. 

“It was, um,” Peter stammers out, “It-It was Mr. Stark’s idea, to-to buy us a Christmas tree.” 

May doesn’t react. Her hand lowers as the whole scene sinks in. Dread weighs down Peter’s stomach and he’s just beginning to think he’s done something wrong and made a terrible mistake when May surges forward just as an “I’m sorry” forms on the tip of his tongue. 

She cuts him off and flings her arms around him and Peter returns her embrace. Tightly, fiercely. His eyes water. He missed this, missed her, so much. 

“Oh, Peter, it’s perfect,” she cries into his ear. “It’s perfect, baby.” 

A shattered breath of relief, of grief, escapes him. “I’m sorry, May,” he sobs. “I’m sorry for being such a jerk and I’m-I’m sorry I couldn’t save-” 

“Oh, no, no,” May admonishes gently, her cold fingers running through curling tendrils of hair soothingly. “No, Peter, it wasn’t-it wasn’t your fault. He wasn’t your fault and I’m-I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you these past few weeks.” 

Peter sniffs and buries his nose into the hollow of her shoulder, breathing her in. His arms shift around her to hold her close and she squeezes him before she tugs herself away, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

“Can you forgive me?” she asks, smiling sadly. 

“Only if you can forgive me,” he replies. 

They both laugh wetly and then they come in again for another hug and Peter feels like a huge weight has been lifted, their exchange of apologies and forgiveness cathartic for his broken yet slowly healing spirit. 

That night, they promised they were going to take care of each other. 

Tonight, they make good on that promise. 

-

Tony helps them set up the tree and then murmurs lowly in the kitchen to May that he and Pepper will be hosting a Christmas Eve dinner tomorrow if she and Peter would like to join them. He doesn’t hear May’s response but out of the corner of his eye, he sees Tony escort himself out. He throws a “See you later, kid” over his shoulder and Peter replies “See you later, Mr. Stark” before it’s just him and May in the apartment. 

May sighs contentedly. “Well, it’s not too late for some last minute Christmas shopping so what do you say we head out tonight? We can grab some pizza, buy some ornaments and decorate the tree?” 

Peter nods, smiles. “Yeah, that sounds great.” 

They go out on the town and then hours later, they’re holed up in the apartment together, the tree dazzling warmly and bathing the apartment in a golden, yellow light. Tiny, colored bulbs flash. Ornaments glint. Die Hard plays on a low volume. 

It’s a perfect Christmas. 

Well, almost. 

-

“Dude, seriously, if you don’t turn yourself in, I’m gonna be late for Christmas dinner!” 

It’s Santa again and he’s whipping around town on his sleigh irreverently, scattering more explosive ornaments behind him in his wake. Porcelain shards shower down from over head no matter how many bombs Peter tries to redirect. 

“Ho, ho, ho!” cackles Santa as he clips the edge of an apartment building, bricks falling. “There’s only enough room for one hero in a red suit, Spider-Man!” 

Peter sighs. “Well, tell that to DareDevil then,” he mumbles underneath his breath. 

He shoots a web and tugs, banks hard around the corner. In his periphery, his eye snags on civilians about to be hit by the falling debris. He shoots a web at the edge of the building and strings it to a lamppost. The web bounces with the impact of bricks but holds and the civilians wave at him as he continues to sling after Santa. 

Flash is gonna hate Spider-Man after this. 

“You’re at ten feet and closing, Peter,” Karen tells him. 

Peter groans frustratedly. “Is there anyway we can speed this up?” 

His HUD alights with neon colors. “Scanning for vulnerabilities.” After a moment, his ears fill with an affirmative digging. “Scan complete. His sleigh runs on electricity, an EMP or electric overload should disable it.” 

Ice trickles sharp and fast down his spine in warning, neurons flaring off in his head. Peter’s eyes go wide. He reorients himself as the air crackles. The whip is back and Peter narrowly avoids being lashed at. 

“Why didn’t I think of that?” he says. 

“Because you are not an AI, Peter.” 

“Thanks, Karen.” 

“You are very welcome.” 

Santa alters his trajectory. They’re going at an angle now, over apartment buildings rather than the streets, which is preferable. Less chance someone will be caught in the line of fire. 

But now the distance is increasing. Peter has to close it fast or Santa gets away again and Peter does not want to have to deal with this guy after the holidays are over. 

His muscles burn with exertion, breathes falling hard and fast from his lungs. He’s slinging as fast as he can, faster than he even thought was possible, and the distance slowly begins to close. Santa is within range now. This is Peter’s chance. 

He shoots a web and tethers himself to the sleigh, lets himself be tugged through the air.

The wind rushing by fills his ears and he almost misses it when Karen says, “Incoming call from Happy Hogan.” 

“Not right now, Karen!” he cries. “Activate taser webs!” 

His strand alights with electricity surging through the sinews of the webbing. The sleigh stutters in response, black puffs of smoke billowing into the air. 

“Yes!” Peter exclaims triumphantly. 

As the sleigh begins to nosedive, Happy’s voice comes over the comm system. 

“Listen, kid, I’m gonna make this quick,” he says irritatedly, “I’m gonna be at your aunt’s place in fifteen minutes flat. Either you’re there or you’re not, and you’re gonna have to find your own way to Tony’s if it’s the latter.” 

“Got it, thanks Happy, end call!” he yells just as the sleigh hits the rooftop below them and skids to a halt, gravel splashing into the air. 

Peter tumbles to a stop and then shoots to his feet, runs over to scavenge the wreckage. He grabs Santa by the arms and drags him out, binds him together with webs and leaves him on the rooftop. He breathes heavily with effort. 

“Karen, notify local precincts and send them the address,” Peter says. 

“Of course, Peter. Now I suggest you hurry. Happy will not be happy if he has to wait for you to arrive.” 

“Was that a pun?” 

“What is a pun?” 

He sighs. “We’re gonna have to work on your sense of humor.” 

“Sure thing. Plotting course now.” 

-

May and Happy won’t stop flirting in the front seat. 

It’s disgusting and every time May catches his grossed out gaze, he feigns gagging and she rolls her eyes before returning to whatever lighthearted conversation she’d been engaging in. 

Peter leans against the car door, rests his head on the frosty, cool window as the city passes by a haze of yellow lights and snow drifting down from above, illuminated by the lampposts lining the sidewalks. 

They drive to the outskirts of the city. Happy takes the spiraling entry ramp onto the tollway and guns it as the traffic changes speed. He’s nearly just as an aggressive driver as Tony is. Peter wonders who got it from who. 

As far as Christmas’ goes, this isn’t one of the worst. He’ll take May flirting over May crying any day of the week. They decorated their tree last night with a varying array of Spider-Man ornaments May insisted they buy. They watched movies and then talked about their week and laughed until their eyes watered and their ribs ached. 

It’s not perfect but it’s better. Maybe one day it will be. But for now, they’re trying and that’s all that matters, really. 

An hour later, they’re exiting the tollway. 

Smooth concrete transitions to pavement transitions to gravel. Soon enough, they’re rolling to a stop outside the cabin, windows glowing warmly and reflecting the snow dusting the trees that tower over them. A crisp wind howls. The air is sharp with pine and cold. An owl hoots. 

Peter helps May carry in the presents they stashed in the trunk. Their budget is a little tight, as always, but where there’s a will, there’s a way and May is one of the most determined people Peter has ever known. When they were out last night, they divvied up the presents and each bought something small. She got something for Pepper, Morgan and Happy. Peter bought something for Rhodey and Tony. 

Tony’s gift was the hardest though. After all, what do you get for the man who has everything? 

But he saw it in a souvenir shop and he figured the gift would be as close to perfect as he could possibly get. 

He just hopes Tony will like it. 

Rhodey greets them all the door and helps them bring everything inside. Christmas dinner is in full motion. Pepper is clamoring around in the kitchen and swearing at Tony for him to leave. His face is red and flushed from heat or laughter or both and he brightens when he sees that May, Peter and Happy have arrived. 

“Hey! The gang’s all here!” he greets, jovial, and kisses May on the cheek, hugs Happy. 

He hugs Peter last, nice and tight, and Peter can hear the motors whirring in his prosthetic, a red and yellow gleaming hand out in full display. 

“You doing alright, kid?” Tony asks. 

Peter nods. “Yeah, I’m doing great, thanks.” 

“Well, thank you for being here. If I’m right, and I always am, I think this is gonna be the best Christmas yet.” 

Peter smiles and then Morgan comes bounding over, Pepper’s phone hanging out of her hand, a game trilling and beeping. Peter scoops her up and carries her back into the living room while May heads into the kitchen and the adults go to set the table. 

Happy has already deposited all the presents underneath the tree. Peter plops down onto the couch with Morgan and eyes the tree up and down. The tree is decorated with a variety of ornaments both store bought and handmade. Peter wonders what their Christmases were like in the five years he was gone. If it took them a little while to celebrate like it took him after Ben died. 

He decides he doesn’t need to know. Christmas is going well. He doesn’t need to sour it with bittersweet thoughts like that. 

“You see that?” she says and Peter looks over her shoulder to see her navigating her way through a Minecraft world. “That’s my spawning point right there.” 

“Oh, that’s awesome!” he replies and then Tony is calling them over for dinner. 

They all sit down around the table and clasp hands. From beside him, Tony extends his metal hand and Peter hesitates, unsure, and then takes it, cool, metal fingers curling around his hand. 

Pepper says grace and then they all begin to dig in, passing baskets and plates of food around, serving themselves heaping scoops of mashed potatoes and pouring generous amounts of gravy over it. Peter eats and smiles as Tony and Rhodey swap stories of Christmas pranks at MIT and then Peter tells his own stories about him and Ned and the pranks they’ve pulled over the years and they all dissolve into laughter. 

May recounts Christmas stories and old traditions from her childhood that have faded into nothingness but she tells them with such sweetness and candor that leaves Peter’s heart swelling with renewed fondness for May. She talks about her and Ben’s first Christmas together and then Christmases with Peter and leaves out the worst one, the one where he died before they could celebrate. 

The mood sobers, only a little, and then Morgan says something stupid and they all collapse into hysteria. 

After dinner is over, the dishes are cleared and taken to the kitchen. They all gather in the living room, not quite ready to swap gifts yet but Morgan insists and Peter sees Tony’s resolve visibly melt off his face as Morgan begs him to let everyone start opening presents. 

Morgan opens a few gifts from her parents - a tablet, a movie, a princess dress - and then she grabs presents and brings them over for Peter to read the labels before she delivers them to their rightful owners. 

Rhodey opens a box and unfolds a faded, cranberry colored MIT sweatshirt and jabs a finger accusingly at Tony, saying, “I knew it! I knew you had this all along!” 

Tony chuckles. “Merry Christmas, buddy.” 

It goes like that: presents being opened, tissue paper crinkling and flying into the air as everyone tears into their gifts like they’re all six years old. Tony absolutely loves the Iron Man and Spider-Man picture frame Peter got him and insists he has the perfect picture to put in it. The atmosphere is joy filled and ambient with warmth. Peter begins to feel strangely smothered by it as the night goes on, his sweater itchy, throat tight with an unidentifiable emotion. His stomach twists. 

He steps outside for air. 

He sits down on a porch chair and gazes out at the frozen lake which glistens with moonlight. Stars glitter overhead. Peter forces himself to breathe deeply, in and out, in and out, breathe evaporating into the chill air, a winter breeze whipping through his close and lightly grazing against his skin, cheeks reddening. 

He doesn’t know what’s wrong. The world is slowly being tilted back on its axis again but it’s not alright. Something is still missing and Peter doesn’t know what. His eyes sting with wet. He bites down on a cracked, frozen lip. 

“Needed some air?” 

Peter jerks. Tony is leaning against the doorframe casually but his eyes tell a different story, all wide and sad, concern creasing his brows together. A colorfully wrapped gift box hangs out of his metal hand which faintly glints in the dim porchlight. He edges around Peter’s seat and sits down in the vacant chair beside him with a groan.

“You alright?” he asks gently. 

Peter sniffles, rubs his sleeve underneath his nose. “I don’t know,” he admits. “It just feels like there’s something missing is all.” 

Tony doesn’t say anything to that, casting his gaze down to the floorboards beneath their shoes. 

“You know, you haven’t opened your gift yet,” Tony says. 

Peter looks at him, blinking in surprise, confusion written into his features. “I thought the Christmas tree was my gift.” 

Tony whistles, shakes his head and says, “No, that was really more for your aunt and my peace of mind that you wouldn’t spend the entire holiday moping.” After a moment, he extends the gift box to Peter. “If you want it.” 

Peter does so he takes it and settles it into his lap, the weight familiar and cloying from the recesses of his memory. He tears the paper off and lifts the white lid and his heart stops, everything freezing over, veins flooding with ice. 

Inside, there are dozens of handwritten letters, the words bumpy and raised with slanted, tear jerking handwriting. Glossy, blissful photographs from years ago peer contentedly up at him but it’s the silver shield that snags him the most and threatens to unravel him into terrible, fraying ribbons at Tony’s feet. 

He gasps wetly with shock as he reaches inside with trembling fingers and takes the badge into his shaking hands, thumb running over the numbers. 

Peter doesn’t even know what to say. He wants to say how, how did Tony find this, where did Tony find this and it looks like everything is still inside: the letters, the pictures, the glass bottle of cologne May always pretended to hate. 

Everything in its place, something in the world righting itself again. 

“Took me a while,” Tony says after a moment. “Was up all night last night trying to track it down. Found it in Boston if you can believe it.” 

Peter can’t. The badge begins to blur as a sob is wrenched from Peter’s lungs and he begins to cry, Tony’s warm arms wrapping around him, body spasming with hiccups. 

Tony lets him cry all he wants, his sweater dampening beneath Peter’s cheeks as the tears fall hot and fast. It all narrows down and snaps back and as Peter’s cries begin to slow, he finds that he feels better, his heart mending, his being knitting itself quietly together again. 

“I just really miss him,” Peter whispers quietly, so quiet he’s not even sure Tony hears it at first. 

Tony sighs deeply. Peter hears the air whoosh in and out of his lungs. “I know you do, kid,” he says. “I know you do.” 

When Peter’s ready, he pulls himself away from Tony and laughs, all breath and wetness. 

“Thank you, Mr. Stark,” he murmurs and it feels woefully inadequate but Tony accepts it all the same with a smile and a hands on Peter’s shoulders, squeezing, assuring, grounding. 

“Merry Christmas, Peter,” Tony says. 

“Merry Christmas, Mr. Stark,” Peter replies. 

And in that moment, he swears his heart grows two sizes too big.

**Author's Note:**

> the quality deteriorates closer to the end at it shows
> 
> also i only like about 75-80% of this but aNYWAYS i hope you guys enjoyed and have a happy thanksgiving! be sure to leave a kudos & a comment letting me know what you thought and i'll talk to you guys later, bye!
> 
> wattpad: ironarana  
> ko-fi: ironarana


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